Presumption of Guilt (17 page)

Well, then, someone like Bill Brandon—who professed to believe in Christ but used Scripture for his own evils, and who had ruined the lives of hundreds of children just as he had tried to ruin hers—could be readily accepted into heaven if he made a deathbed conversion.

And that could
never
be true.

“Tell me something, Beth,” Nick said. “Look ahead five years, ten years, whatever, and tell me, if you could be everything you think God wants you to be, what will you be doing? Who will you be?”

She shifted on the bench and propped her elbow on the back. “Maybe I'll be married to a wonderful man I don't deserve. And I'll have babies . . .” That smile grew across her face. “Lots of babies. And my husband will love them, and never hurt them, and I'll live my life the way a mother should, so that they'll always trust me and count on me, so that no one will ever be able to take them away.”

His smile faded as she spoke, and she realized she had said too much. He was watching her with misty eyes now, hanging on every word.

But she couldn't help going on in a strange, wistful voice. “And that family will be so great. The whole world can fall apart around us, but we'll be so strong, so tightly knit, that nothing will ever break us.”

“‘What God has joined together let no man put asunder.'”

“Yes!” she said. “I know exactly what that means.”

“Do you believe that family you described is the plan God has for you? In other words, that he has good plans for you instead of calamity?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “But sometimes we bring calamity on ourselves. Sometimes other people bring it on us.” She shrugged.“On the other hand, he may plan for me to be alone. Some people are supposed to be single. Some people never find the right mate.”

“That thought has run through my mind a few times, too,” he admitted. “But I'd prefer to think that there's a terrific family that's already a snapshot in God's mind, and that I'm standing at the head of it.”

“That would be a beautiful snapshot,” she said. “Send me a wallet size of it, will you?”

His smile was eloquent, but she couldn't decipher what it could mean. She was too busy wishing she could be in that snapshot.

He touched her face, feather stroking it with gentle fingertips, testing her, as if he thought she might pull away. She didn't.Their eyes met in a startling moment of awareness, and she unconsciously wet her lips.

Slowly, his face moved closer to hers, and those fingertips moved into her hair and pulled her toward him. His lips brushed hers, gently, sweetly, and she felt her heart bursting into a Fourth-of-July display as their kiss deepened.

For a moment, all time was suspended, all tragedy was held at bay, all calamity was delayed. For a moment, she saw herself in that snapshot, standing under his arm with a serene smile on her face, surrounded by children that looked like him.

The joy of that hope brought real tears to her eyes, tears that she didn't try to blink back.

He broke the kiss and pressed his forehead into hers. He wiped one of her tears away with his thumb. For a moment, neither of them could speak.

His mouth seemed engaged in the same emotional struggle as he finally tried to find words. “You're a beautiful woman, Beth. Do you know that?”

She swallowed.

“A very beautiful woman.”

He pulled her into his arms then, and held her while her tough facade crumbled and she melted into tears. She didn't remember ever being held like that, not in her life, and as she reveled in that warmth, she feared the ending of it.

Finally, he let her go and stood up, taking her hand. “We'd better go. Tomorrow's going to be a big day.”

“Yeah,” she whispered. “I guess I do need to get home.”

“I'm not taking you home,” he said. “It's too dangerous. I'm taking you back to Lynda's.”

“But I can't impose on her that way.”

“She insisted when we left,” he said. “She took me aside and made me promise not to let you go home tonight. She even invited your puppy. Besides, I want to say good night to Jimmy.”

“All right, then,” she whispered, leaning into him as he slid his arm around her shoulders. “If I can go by and get Dodger.”

“Sure. No problem.”

Smiling gently, she walked with him to his car.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

T
he parking lot at the
St. Clair News
was never empty, and tonight was no exception. At least a dozen cars were parked in scattered spaces, testifying to the fact that people were in the building, working to get out the next morning's edition of the paper.

Bill Brandon had timed things just right. Earlier that day, he had phoned the paper and spoken to a building maintenance supervisor. He'd told him that he was teaching a summer class in journalism for the University of Florida—Clearwater Campus's “College for Kids” program, and that he would like to bring a group on a field trip to tour the paper. But he wanted them to see the paper actually being printed.

That was impossible, the supervisor had told him. The paper was printed after midnight, and he doubted that any children's parents would be willing to send their children on a field trip at that hour. Bill had sighed and agreed.

But by the time he got off the phone, he knew exactly where in the building the paper was printed, and what time would be best to strike. Then he'd called one of his associates, who had much to lose if the article was printed and who had agreed to help. Since his associate was a prominent member of St. Clair's government, he would show up at the paper to complain about a political editorial that had been done the week before. Before he left, he would unlock two or three windows, so that later, the kids could get in. He had called back shortly after that with the location of the windows.

The children were quiet as he drove them through the parking lot flanking the building. He pointed down a hill toward a basement door with a light on, and said, “There. You see? That's the area you want to get into. But the windows are unlocked on the other side of the building, second floor. You'll have to go through the building to the right place.” He drove around until the other side was in view. Lights glowed on that side of the building, as well, but not in the area where they would break in.

“Take the ladder and go in. Remember, quiet as mice, like I taught you. Space far enough apart that if one of you is seen, everyone else won't be given away. Now, what did I tell you to say if anyone sees you?”

Brad was the first to speak up. “I'm John's boy. He brought me to work with him tonight.”

“What if nobody named John works here?” one of them asked.

“Somebody named John works everywhere,” Bill said. “There are people scattered all over the building, so they'll accept that without thinking about it. Now stay in the dark places, and follow the route that I gave you. Everybody got their backpacks loaded?”

The team that consisted of four rough-looking boys, and three girls, including Lisa, all clothed in black, was ready.

“Remember,” Bill said as they filed out of the van. “If you botch this up, you'll go to jail tomorrow. When that article comes out—”

“We won't botch it up, Bill,” one of the kids said.

“All right. Now once you've done what you came to do, you take off through that door and don't waste any time. I'll be waiting.”

The kids filed out, one by one, adjusting their backpacks on their shoulders. Three of the boys unloaded the ladder that was tied to the top of the van, the ladder they would leave behind, and carried it quickly to the side of the building where the three windows on the second floor had been unlocked.

They set the ladder under the window, and two of the girls held it while Brad scurried up it and slid the window up. No one said a word as Brad stepped through. Lisa was next. She climbed the ladder carefully, not fast enough, she was sure, but she was terrified of falling, and the weight of the load on her back made it more difficult to keep her balance. She reached the window and slid under. Brad helped her down without a word. It was the quietest she'd ever seen him.

She watched as he took off through the building, exactly the direction Bill had drilled them on. She waited and helped Kevin in, then took off herself, leaving him behind to help the one behind him.

A sense of importance filled her as she took off through the dark hallway to the exit sign that was her first marker. She quietly went through the door, took the stairs down, and came out on the first floor. She saw Brad a little ahead of her, hurrying past lit offices with people working at computers, past a huge room with dozens of cluttered desks, but only two or three people working.

She could hear something clicking in there, something like a fast typewriter or printer. Maybe the noise would keep the workers from hearing them.

She looked behind her and saw Kevin gaining on her. She ducked past the door and to the next exit door, and headed down to the basement.

She was big enough to do this, she thought with satisfaction. Wouldn't Bill be proud of her, that she'd taken directions so carefully and hadn't messed it up?

She heard the sound of machines running as she came out of the stairwell into the basement. It was so loud that no one was ever going to hear them. She saw Brad looking around for anyone nearby.

There were two men in one of the rooms, their skin shiny with sweat as they operated the machines. It was hot down here, even though there was air conditioning and the fans overhead hummed. The machines put out a lot of heat. But she knew that it was about to get hotter.

Brad motioned for her to follow him, and she looked behind her and gave the same gesture to the person following her. He pointed to the room where the men were. “Somebody has to go in there,” he said, his voice muffled by the drone of the machinery.

“No! They'll see us. We'll get caught,” one of the children protested.

“If we don't do it, we're only half doing the job, and the article will come out.”

“Send Lisa. She's the littlest. They won't see her.”

Lisa's eyes widened. “I'm not going.”

“Yes, you are,” Brad said. “If you don't, I'll tell Bill. Now go. Head under the machine, and douse it good.”

She got tears in her eyes as one of the kids unzipped her backpack and pulled the hose with the trigger spray nozzle out. “We'll be in here. Now hurry.”

Lisa wanted to burst into tears, but she knew that if she did, she would be punished. She had to get the job done. It's what Jimmy would have done.

Biting her lip, she went to the edge of the door and peered around the doorway. She could see the sweating men doing something with the gadgets on the machine as the pages of the paper were spat out one by one. The room smelled of sweat, mildew, ink, and paper.

She ducked out of their sight behind the machinery and began to spray the inner workings of the machine, the floor around it, and the paper behind her against the wall awaiting its turn on the printer.

She heard voices. The men were talking to each other, but she couldn't hear what they were saying. Did they smell the gas, or was the artificial wind created by the fan pushing the smell down? Would it blow the fire out as soon as it got started?

She emptied the container of gas on her back, concentrating only on that one side of the machine, since she couldn't get to the other side without the men seeing her. Then she scurried back out of the room.

The others had been busily emptying their own containers, and she smelled the acrid fumes of gasoline soaked into curtains, carpet, dripping on the machinery in every room along the darkened hallway. Brad motioned for them to follow him, and they all ran down the hall to the door through which they would escape, the last person trailing a line of gasoline behind him.

When they reached the outside door, the others sprinted toward the van. But Brad grabbed Lisa and stopped her. “You're not finished,” he whispered.

“What?” she asked.

“You get to light the match,” he said. “It's your initiation. Bill said.”

She didn't know what an initiation was, but she didn't object to it. She took the match from his hand, struck it against the gritty side of the matchbox, and smiled at the flame dancing on the end of the matchstick.

“Throw it in, stupid!” he whispered harshly. “Don't just stand there with it.”

She threw the match down in the puddle of gasoline and watched it billow into flames. She caught her breath and jumped back as the fire raced down the hall. Brad grabbed her hand and began to pull her away from the door as the rooms they had doused went up in a quiet conflagration.

Lisa felt a sudden rush of fear. Looking back at the building as Brad pulled her along, she cried, “Those men! Brad, those men were in there!”

“They'll get out,” he said. “Everybody will get out as soon as the fire alarm goes off. Now hurry!”

The van was moving as they reached it, and Brad forced Lisa into it, then jumped into it himself and closed the door just as they heard the fire alarm ring out.

Lisa rolled on the van floor, unable to find her footing, as the van accelerated out of the parking lot. But she managed to claw her way up to a window and peer out in time to see people fleeing from the burning building.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

T
he trucks that delivered Express Mail for the St. Clair area were lined up against the back of the post office, their rear doors open as graveyard shift postal workers loaded the next day's deliveries. On top of one of the stacks was the package Lisa had delivered earlier that day. The one addressed to Beth Wright, with the return address of Marlene Brandon.

As the sky began to take on the rose tints of dawn, one of the postal workers stopped for a moment to rest. He wiped his sweating brow and opened his thermos for some lukewarm coffee. “Hey, Alice,” he called to the woman sitting at the front desk, “has the paper come yet?”